Tightens now his doom between
two oaths, and shewn the token ring,
a king’s sacrifice foreseen
the serpent twines devouring.
A faithless realm a king forlorn
a fate with friendship faithful wound,
in bonds to end, of bindings sworn
the serpent lifts the golden crown.
In darkened tower song defies,
the shadows of the werewolf’s guile,
the clash of song and chanting rise,
till falters hope in Wizard’s Isle.
Now who the silent harp shall play
or keep the dimmed torch’s ray?
Poem by Vorondiel Liltare Gelilthor, daughter of Vorondo.
Vorondo leaned on his spear—a spear that had stood, still and useless as a branch shed from a snow-laden tree when his king set forth to death.
Now he watched his daughter, his dancing daughter, spin her own spear as if it were nothing more than a plaything. She named her spear vengeance, but now her face was unclouded and laughing, for she knew not that against which she sought revenge.
He watched his son, his gentle son, who longed for the serene West from which he had been sundered before his birth. Yet he with his love of peace perhaps better understood war then his sister, and his aspect was sombre as he spoke in a hushed tone to his betrothed. .
How close it had come to a different choice, one that would have ended with his own mangled body broken in a befouled dungeon. To that fate the first urgings of his spirit would have led, as Felagund’s voice rang in the hall, to follow his liege and for fealty’s sake to make his lord’s oath his own.
But came another voice of power, and it seemed no short-sighted oath to mortal man could match the doom that must come upon those who draw the wrath of the sons of Fëanor. Why should Nargothrond drown in the blood and tears of an awakened oath for the sake of a mortal’s squabble with the king of Doriath?
He stood immobile as the king’s crown clanged to the stone floor, and stared at the silent stones. If Orodreth now wore the crown, could he not still keep his charge with honour in his service?
But Felagund went forth, crownless and unheralded through the gates he had wrought.
Now Vorondo watched his children and wished for them courage—faithful courage whatever befell. But still the ringing words of doom filled his ears, and he wished they would stay and for a little longer escape the tears unnumbered that must be the lot of the Noldor.
They had made their choice. Now again a mortal had come, and this time Nargothrond followed him.
For Orodreth the king with the Black Sword and the host of Nargothrond set forth to the field of Tumhalad. And with them marched Vorondo and his children.
